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\§ffl0 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

^^ 

Chap»jc5- Copyright No.. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Fancies Framed in Florentine 




1LLV5TRBTED BY/ 

*SH<§mm flown Samlet 




CONTINENTAL 

PUBLISHING COMPLY 

NEW YORK & LONfX)N 

1597 






//2-7 









Copyright, 1897, by 
CONTINENTAL PUBLISHING CO. 



De&fcatiom 



To Martha Rihl Wray, my Wife : 

At Love's feet were strewn the frail dra- 
peries with which she had been clothed — the 
cloak of gold of the mercenary ; the brilliant- 
hued garmenls of the sentimentalist ; the dainty 
bridal veils of the young, and the pure white 
cloaks of ignorant faith, as well as the voluptu- 
ous folds with which brute Nature had clothed 
its idol. Each believed that Love wore the 
garment he had woven for her, until Time 
proved his mistake. 

Then a strange composite being, made up 
of sentiment, experience, religion, tenderness, 
and brutality, wove a plain but enduring tex- 
ture for Love, and, throwing it over her should- 
ers, called it "good comradeship," and this 

garment Love wears. 

H. R. W. 



CONTENTS. 

Dedication 5 

The Scoffer 11 

Jean du Bois 14 

A. Phantom Ship 18 

Character 20 

Dawn 23 

Vita et Mors 26 

Where the Tale Weeds Grow . 31 

The Ebb and Flow 35 

Check-mate 38 

A Life 43 

Yiolette ..... 46 

Shadows . 48 

One Chapter 51 



contents. 

Mother and Son 54 

M. le Ministre 57 

Two Women 60 

Sleeping and Waking 62 

Fan and Gloves 65 

The Other Side of the Picture 70 

Twilight 76 

A Symphony of the Sea .... 79 

Motherhood 82 

Winter Winds 86 

In Harbor 89 

Silver Sands 93 

A Log Fire 96 

The Two Destinies 99 

Dreams 104 

Realization 106 

Searching After Truth . . .110 

Stars 116 

The Four-leaf Clover .... 119 



CONTENTS. 

The Priest 121 

Wood Nymph 124 

Sins of the Fathers 127 

The Tablet 129 

Inconsistency 131 

The Question -» . . 133 





THE SCOFFER. 



It was when all was light and 
"bright; when things were living and 
moving; when the earth was slowly 
passing through what was known as 
day, — that the Scoffer was so bold, and 
convinced himself there was no God. 

"What an ignorant superstition!" 
he said ; "how blind those of my fellow- 
men, who deem me a scoffer!" Thor- 
n 



12 THE SCOFFER. 

oughly he converted the multitude who 
followed him, led by his eloquent and 
able reasoning. And he believed in 
himself. 

All the while the earth moved slowly 
on, into the mellowed fields of twilight. 

His cries of defiance were not then so 
loud, for this phase in the many beau- 
tiful ones of nature found harmonious 
response from something within him; 
and then the life and gayety of the 
noon-time had disappeared, and even 
the bright colors of twilight were fast 
fading. 

Yet he felt he knew himself, as he 
watched from his high window. A cool 
breath of air stole along his temples. 
Earth was entering the border-path of 
night, and now her people, during the 
dark journey, were to forget their 
boldness, their cares and pleasures, in 
sleep. 



THE SCOFFER. 



13 



As he watched, he thought with 
contempt of the unreasoning sleepers. 
It grew darker and later; he detected 
breathing ; it was the earth heaving 
in slumber. 

Then he thought over again all he 
believed, and of those he had converted 
to his thinking. What if he had made 
a mistake ? For the first time a strange 
doubt came, but that was perhaps be- 
cause all was so dark and still. 



When the earth's night 
journey was ended, they found 
him dead — at his window. 




JEAN DU BOIS. 

In walking through one 
of the avenues in Pere- 
Lachaise, where the poorer 
-- classes are buried, my cu ri- 
fe osity was aroused by a 
yij>. * 

^L headstone on one of 
the graves, and a stone- 
cutter, with mallet and 
chisel, obliterating the inscription, 
"A ma mere," while under it was 
marked, in black chalk for corrected 
cutting, "A une mere" It was odd. A 
thin, neatly dressed young man, with 
hat in hand, directed the mason. 




Jean du Bois was a solemn boy, 
with great blue eyes mounted in a 

14 



JEAN DU BOIS. 15 

pinched face. His head was large and 
well modeled; his stature small. He 
looked delicate and in need of nourish- 
ment. 

His honest countenance and appear- 
ance of poverty, though his clothes 
were clean with the manifestation of 
the darning-needle's careful network 
all over them, had influenced the libra- 
rian of the Bibliotheque Nationale to 
engage him for odd chores about the 
building. This was when Jean was but 
ten years of age — a time in a boy's 
life when reason is in its infancy. 

Jean lived with his mother, whom he 
loved dearly. She was called Juliette — 
a very old woman, who at four o'clock 
every morning distributed the Figaro 
and the Temps, and during the day 
was employed as femme de menage. 

Jean's reason was old for his years 
His determination was to support his 




16 JEAN DU BOIS. 

mother, and that was why he applied 
for a position, and he chose the library, 
because he loved to look at books. 
When he was sixteen years old his 
v long-cherished wish was grati- 
fied ; and not too soon, for old 
Juliette became an incurable 
cripple from rheumatism. His 
alary of eighty francs a month 
not princely, but even from this 
he found that his mother saved. 

When Juliette died, Jean had been 
promoted to the position of keeper of 
the catalogues, receiving two hundred 
francs a month. His heart was almost 
broken with the loss of his mother, and 
he deprived himself of everything except 
the bare necessities of life to buy the 
stone slab that marked her grave. 

One night, about five months after 
the death of old Juliette, he determined 
to clear up and burn the rubbish in his 



JEAN DU BOIS. 17 

room, and commenced by opening an 
old trunk, covered with dust, which 
had, as long back as he remembered, 
reposed under his mother's bed. In it 
he found notes and papers to Juliette 

du Bois from Mile. , who was even 

then a personage high in social power 
in Paris, and these papers proved her 
to be Jean's own mother ; for there was 
a letter of committal and others inclos- 
ing money for his support. He counted 
the shining louis, in all thirty thousand 
francs. He made these discoveries, and 
further, that Juliette had been a miser. 
That was why he stood to-day super- 
vising the recutting of the tombstone. 





A PHANTOM SHIP. 

A phantom ship comes 
out of the night, 
noiselessly, blindly, 
seeking its way. Its 
great white body 
and well-filled sails 
stand out like a pallor 
on the face of darkness, and its silent 
gliding leaves a clear scar on the black 
waters, in which it sinks so low with 
its weighty cargo. 

Without crew it moves from port 
to port, while all men sleep, collecting 
the troubles of the world. 

It enters harbors where it is ladened 
with those cares which come so sud- 
denty with their many edges finely 

18 



A PHANTOM SHIP. 19 

sharpened with bitterness. Quickly 
and mysteriously these cares leave the 
world's people, as in the shadow of 
the night they are stowed away by 
unseen hands on this phantom ship. 

The weight of the world's care is 
great ; — that is why the vessel sinks so 
low in the water, and why it moves so 
slowly. 

No helmsman governs the ship; it 
sails blindly. Its only guides are the 
thousand little puffs of wind, the 
breathings of night, which push 
against its sails and body. 

Troubles come, but troubles go as 
a phantom ship comes out of the 
night. 




CHARACTER. 

HE whole world is an arch- 

' ery-field, and its people are 

the targets; for at certain 

ages every man unconsciously 

f.' comes forward in his regular turn 

and serves as a mark for the darts 

from the drawn bows of Joy, Sorrow, 

Jealousy, Disappointment, and Hate. 

Often the aim is false, and the arrows 
fly wide of their mark, while at other 
times they come dangerously near; 
but oftener they pierce him, and this 
wound influences all his future life, 
for man is young when he enters the 
field where the life game is played. 
Then there is great rivalry for points 
of score among this band of archers 
20 



CHARACTER. 21 

so widely different; — and how eagerly, 
with drawn bows, they await each 
new comer! 

He who rejoices in being the target 
for Joy and Love finds that they are 
always joined sooner or later by an- 
other archer called Sorrow, whose aim 
is unerring. Jealousy, Disappointment, 
and Hate score many points ; for when 
the coward (and the greater number 
of targets are cowards) confronts that 
row of wicked bows and flees for lack 
of moral strength to stand the wound, 
the quick eyes and practised hands of • 
Jealousy, Disappointment, and Hate 
send their arrows with sure and rapid 
flight on their crippling missions. 

But the telling game, which has been 
played since time was, goes on and 
will continue as long as time is. The 
old targets relate their experiences over 
and over again, as directing guides to 



22 CHARACTER. 

the young who have not as yet entered 
the arena. It matters not, however — 
the marksmen seem to know their own. 
The whole world is an archery-field, 
and its people are all wounded — some 
slightly, others badly. These wounds 
as they heal leave scars called char- 
acter. 




DAWN. 

HE stars, as if envious of 
11^5? ^ e so ^> me llow flush in 
the east, which wove it- 
self into golden raiment 
to clothe a newly born day, 
cT seemed to gather fresh force as 
they nervously showered glittering 
rays in asserting their proud claim 
as guardians of a still sleeping world. 
Each moment, however, their brilliant 
light trembled, and their faces grew 
paler and paler, as their rival silently 
climbed, step by step, the hill in the 
far east and warmly smiled through a 
gray shroud enveloping waking night. 
The leaves turned their delicate 
faces, moistened with cold tears, to 

23 



24 DAWN. 

that loving warmth for drying. 
Shoots of grass, bending like an army 
of old men loaded down with weight 
of years and dark trials, now raised 
their delicate bodies erect, and silver 
beads of dew dropped from their 
slender forms to moisten the thou- 
sand mouths of earth. 

The bee on tip-toe, wedged himself 
through the closed velvet doors of 
sleeping roses and stole from within 
the hoarded gold, which he buckled 
about him until disguised in a great 
yellow cloak, and again pushing aside 
the petaled portals, escaped, humming 
gleefully to himself in flight at his bold 
robbery. Gradually the jeweled army 
in the heavens took up its retreat 
before the pursuing light. Suddenly 
the last reflected flash of its burnished 
shields, as it fled, was hailed by the 
thrillingly sweet voice of dawn's 



DAWN. 25 

courier, the lark, which darted high 
to the clouds, as if in pursuit of the 
fading host of night watchmen. Its 
song awakened the roses, some of 
which turned deathly pale and others 
blushed blood-red at the daring theft 
of their treasured savings; but in the 
loving warmth of that smile from the 
risen eastern light, they soon forgot 
the loss, and opened wide their barren 
hearts and listened to the trembling 
voice of awakening earth, who em- 
braced them tenderly and held them 
firmly as they gazed in rapture into 
the face of dawn. 



VITA ET MORS. 




From the rue de 
Rivoli, looking up the 
Avenue de 1' Opera it 
seemed, this night, 
■-- y^n w Heaven had loaned her 
jewels for vain earth's adornment. 
The cro wiring gem was formed 
by the Grand Opera building, loom- 
ing out of the distance like some haloed 
sentinel guarding the city's entrance. 
It was enveloped in a thousand chang- 
ing lights, casting forth their silver and 
golden rays like a rebellious and riot- 
ous army of fireflies. 

Bordering the avenue of approach 
to this playhouse of men, were studded 
in regularit}^, lesser jewels, nervously 

26 



YITA ET MORS. 27 

sparkling. Like shooting meteors, 
across the middle, open space, flashed 
truant stars of cab and carriage, bear- 
ing their human freight to an atmos- 
phere where momentary forgetfulness 
of real life was found as they knelt at 
the feet of Pleasure. Paris was in all 
her gay garb of night, in the flash and 
whirl of her famed life — the height of 
the opera season. 

The dazzling and mirrored illumina- 
tions at the entrance of the Opera 
reflected the surging movement and 
fickle existence of a miniature world 
congregated there — a bowing and po- 
lite body, unwittingly struggling in 
the border mesh of the tangling and 
holding net of excitement. 

Slowly ascending the wide, marbled 
staircase was a perfect type of woman, 
pausing a moment to lean over the 
sculptured balustrade and smile a rec- 



28 VITA ET MORS. 

ognition to the fortunate below, or 
perhaps to let those large and sweetly- 
innocent eyes play some unexpressed, 
though none the less active, conversa- 
tion with the infatuated man b\ r her 
I side. His arm consciously 
| f* pressed tightly a fleecy lace 
fe>S^ Y'J .ii suggestion — her wrap. 
fr To appearance she was 
~ fl one of those living and ex- 
1'te"^* quisitery carved sermons of 
God — a true woman, in whose pres- 
ence the crude and common qualities 
of man would be placed in the crucible 
of influence, and the refined metal of 
true character revealed. 

It was the opera that Marie An- 
toinette had had produced for her old 
master, Gluck. 

They were seated now in a box, she 
apparently interested in the play and 
entranced by the music ; he, closely, 




YITA ET MORS. 29 

watching the changing waves of well- 
acted pleasure move the lips in smiles, 
or open wider those eyes — innocent- 
looking eyes — as she bent forward in 
the study of the seemingly real stage 
scene before her. 

She never saw it. Her thoughts 
were far from the bewildering lights, 
jewels and lovely shoulders, to a little 
tragedy of her own — she called it a 
delightful comedy. Only three actors 
on the figurative stage. She, — Actor 
Number One, — knowing well her part, 
she thought, in the comedy of " Frivol." 
She might not have named it so, nor 
discarded, as they rose to go, the 
flowers, whose donor was the second 
actor, the one who had over-rated his 
capabilities, to find relief in the third 
actor, or better, agent, the Seine; and 
at that time, just as her foot crushed 
the roses, which gave forth their cr}^ 



30 



YITA ET MORS. 



only in a delicate odor, he, the second 
actor, was cold and very still in the 
small charnel-house just facing a tiny 
patch of green and the dark rear walls 
of Notre Dame. 




WHERE THE TALL WEEDS GROW. 

^-S^mi J UST through the forms of the 
pjfg!l; majestic sentinel oaks, which had 
stood their guard on this knoll 
for a century and more, one could 
M l! \>\ catch a glimpse of the weather-beaten 
'^\i and veteran mansion. The shingles 




It* 



:\rK^ crowning it were dark in the center, 
and framed about the edges with rich 
moss; while here and there in open 
places, where the wind and storms of 
years had stolen these shingles, grew 
tiny patches of lichen, living and thriv- 
ing on the daily decay. 

The curious little window-panes 
had lost the crystal sparkle of their 
youth, and now gave forth dulled 
lights of blue, green and yellow, like 



31 



32 WHERE THE TALL WEEDS GROW. 

the dimmed glaze of an old man's 
eyes. 

From below the many-eyed win- 
dows, on each side, little streaks of 
light brown, tinged with red, made 
delicate imprints, like the path left on 
the cheek by tears. The row of colo- 
nial pillars, though their pure white- 
ness was long ago gone and their 
formerly erect bodies slightly bent, still 
proudly supported a roof under whose 
protection had often been seated in gay 
groups the wits and beauties of the 
colonial days. Under the eves now 
lived a colony of bats. 

The side balcony still retained some 
of its quiet dignity, even though suf- 
fering the loss of more than half of the 
quaintly carved pillars. 

The once clear path leading to the 
old mansion was completely choked 
with weeds of rank and rapid growth, 



WHERE THE TALL WEEDS GROW. 33 

which, proud of the quiet ground in 
which they were given life, raised their 
foul heads so that they might better 
watch the two old rocking-chairs so 
close together on the wide porch — a 
porch whose paving had served as 
ballast for the bold little ship that 
had dared to sail the sea to the new 
world. 

The wind had whispered it oft to 
the oaks, and they in turn tremblingly 
repeated it through their messengers, 
the falling leaves, to the growing weeds, 
that the old house was haunted — 
that the two rockers were never still, 
but leaned forward, then back, as they 
sang in tune with the changing tone 
of the wind, "Past Glory Gone" and 
that the two old chairs were always 
occupied at twilight — one by a lovely 
dame, with her silver hair just peeping 
from out a lace cap, while a dainty 



34 WHERE THE TALL WEEDS GROW. 

kerchief thrown over a gray shining 
silk, embraced her shoulders ; her deli- 
cate white hand rested on the arm of 
the other chair, in which an officer of 
the Continental Army sat. His face 
was cleanly shaven, his head adorned 
with a spotless powdered wig; close 
by his feet was his three-cornered hat. 
A sword in scabbard stuck straight 
out from his chair, and like a pendu- 
lum kept regular record of the slow 
rocking. The silver buckles on his 
shoes shone like eyes in the night. A 
little stream of red flowed from his 
temple down the right side of his face, 
dyeing the high lace ruffle about his 
throat, but the dame never saw it. 

This was the story the wind told 
the trees, and the trees the weeds. 

Weeds always grow 
high and thick in haunt- 
ed ground. 

~w- 





THE EBB AND FLOW. 



Do you know why the sea ebbs 
and flows? 'Tis this: — the army of 
drowned twice daily gather their forces 
at the bottom of the deep, and march 
toward the four points of the compass 
to lay their weary bones in earth and 
escape from their watery tomb. 

You can hear their tramping — they 
call it sea moaning — and see the waves 
being pushed on before them in great 

35 



36 THE EBB AND FLOW. 

water -hills, which dash against each 
other in their furious flight from the 
escaping host; and when the waves 
break and hurl clouds of snow-white 
spray high in air, it is because of the 
lashing from the swinging, bony arms 
of the army drowned. 

And did you ever listen to the weird 
noise as these mountains of water leap 
upon each other? That is the smoth- 
ered cry of the victims of the sea. On 
and on the waves are driven, farther 
and farther they encroach on land, and 
the feet of the mighty body can be 
heard scraping for foothold on the 
smooth, shifting pebbles. Only another 
incoming wave and escape is theirs — 
but it is just too late ; the re-acted un- 
dertow from the water-wall they force 
before them sets in, and you hear their 
bony feet slip from under them, and 
back they are carried, the sea holding 



THE EBB AND FLOW. 37 

them tightly in its arms, exhausted 
captives. Then look when the tide has 
run far out, and see the prints of their 
feet, and you will know why the sea 
ebbs and flows. 





CHECK-MATE. 

The one ring on the old 
man's hand was worn away 
to a very thin gold band, 
and it seemed in keeping 
IPS^- with its owner's face, 
which resembled a piece of parchment 
well dried after wetting. 

He was seated alone at a chess- 
table, with the men regularly arranged 
on their respective inlaid blocks. He 
had waited a long time for a partner ; 
that was the reason his eyes — eyes 
which shone with a strong high light 
beneath white brows and an encase- 
ment of wrinkles — rested on a young 
man, an attentive observer of the 
game at the next table. 

38 



CHECK-MATE. 39 

The young man smiled approval 
of the winner at the finish, and con- 
sciously turned to confront those lit- 
tle eyes which had seemed burning 
their way through his back. 

He was greeted with a polite beck- 
oning to be seated in the va- 
cant chair opposite the old 

9 
man. 

He advanced. Not a word 
was exchanged, though he noted 
his temporary host's polite but 
unsuccessful effort to rise and the 
manifest disinclination of weakened 
muscles to obey. 

Selecting the red from the proffered 
pawns, the young man opened the 
game. 

The eager yet conservative moves 
of the little old man were akin to the 
cautious guidance of an army by an 
intellectual general, and the trembling 




40 CHECK-MATE. 

hand covering the "piece" emphasized 
the weighing of action. His interest 
became exaggerated as his forces were 
pushed closer and closer to the wall of 
defeat and a possible retreat blocked; 
then came a whisper from his young 
partner — " check" — followed in another 
move by "mate." 

The strain certainty had told on the 
old man; for his complexion was the 
color of wax, and the hair, so beauti- 
fully white, shone like silver, in con- 
trast with the yellow skin. 

The second game opened, and not 
a word was spoken. It was played 
with deeper interest, and victory 
seemed assured for the former loser; 
but then two unfortunate moves, and 
again the almost inaudible whisper — 
"check." 

A feeble hand supported the old 
man's head, wherein an active brain 



CHECK-MATE. 41 

seemed seeking some salvation for 
badly crippled forces. 

The small hand shielded the eyes — 
piercing eyes — that had exerted such a 
mysterious power over the young man, 
who now waited patiently for that 
only possible move to be made — for 
the recovery of lost vantage-ground. 
In the room all was perfectly still, 
save now and then for the noise of a 
player shifting in his chair — a silence 
oppressive to an outsider, but the 
only atmosphere for a devotee of the 
game. 

Five minutes were ticked away by 
the great clock; then ten, and not a 
sign came from the old man. 

It was a critical position, and pos- 
sibly he was studying thoroughly his 
next play. Suddenly the frail arm re- 
fused to bear even the burden of that 
now unthinking brain, and as muscles 



42 



CHECK-MATE. 



relaxed his head fell lifeless, face down- 
ward, on his chest. The game " check," 
the man " check-mated." 




A LIFE. 

Duty slept. His face was one of 
strength and beauty; the mouth was 
firm, almost hard. 

Every mark in the features told its 
mission, and played its part in the 
completion of the perfected whole. 

One strong, bared arm lay on his 
breast, his head resting on the other. 

Over the loins was thrown the skin 
of a wild beast, yellow, spotted with 
black. 

He was fast asleep. 

Playing around him was a harmless, 
innocent -looking child, whose great 
golden locks fell in tangled curls on 
white shoulders. 

His face was fair to look on; his 

43 



44 A LIFE. 

eyes had marked power, and danced 
with glee. 

His plaything was a large ball, and 
in his romping he was cautious lest he 
should arouse or disturb Duty; but 
he often came dangerously near, and 
boisterously tossed his toy again and 
again in mid-air, to catch and clasp 
it to his white breast. 

By and by the covering on the ball 
became loosened, yet the laughing 
child Indulgence tossed it higher, and 
it returned always to his outstretched 
hands. 

Duty slept on. 

Then there stood before laughing 
Indulgence and sleeping Duty a tall, 
gaunt figure, w T ith sad eyes deeply 
sunken and thin, gray hair; he trem- 
bled as he advanced with outstretched 
arms to take the ball from the playful 
child, who only hugged it tighter and 



A LIFE. 45 

willfully refused with smiling defiance 
to give it up. 

Then the tall figure Experience 
pleaded with the child, but to no avail, 
and, catching him in his arms, tried to 
rescue the worn plaything; but in the 
scuffle the ball dropped from the arms 
of Indulgence, tattered and torn: it 
was wrecked Man. 

The noise awoke Duty, but it was 
too late. Experience released Indul- 
gence, who was now crying at the loss 
of his toy, and went on his weary way. 




VIOLETTE. 

'HEN first entering Paris 

he was an awkward 

boy, fresh from a southern 

province, but that was years 

ago. 

He sometimes remembered, now, 
those struggling days when work 
could not be secured, and even food 
was scanty, and then there always 
stood before him that noble face of 
Violette, seated in their small dreary 
room, poorly heated ; she was copying 
his stories, and he could even see the 
little fingers blue with cold. She had 
forsaken family, luxury, all, for his 
love; and what had he given in 
return ? But that was years ago. 

46 



VIOLETTE. 47 

To-day, as he walked with his wife, 
a little girl had stopped him, and 
coaxed, with tears, that he should buy 
her violets. He Imd grown, he 
thought, to hate violets long 
ago, but he bought them. He 
remembered the recognition and 
attending success of his literary 
work and the day of his decoration, 
and too well, the discarding of the 
child who had shared his privations 
and helped him to the success they 
had both dreamed of. 

* * * * * * 

In Pere-Lachaise, in the quarter 
known as the common burial-ground, 
is a neglected grave, covered with wild 
growth. Under the weeds is a head- 
stone, carved "Violette," and a few 
tiny wild violets; they were planted 
years ago. 





SHADOWS. 

Over the face of the day there 
glide, strangely formed, cool-breathing 
shadows. 

They are born and vanish so quickly 
one wonders whence they come and 
whither they go. 

Miles of them travel day by day on 
_ ,-v ^ the sea, cooling the dark blue 
waters over which they 
fc hover and frown a trail. 

They are in league with the 
clouds against the sun. 
When the day is strong, at noon- 
tide, the sun overpowers the shadows 
with its great strength; but in the 
day's youth and again as it waxes 
old, these shadows, with the clouds as 

48 




SHADOWS. 49 

their allies, race over land and sea in 
wild glee seeking refuge ; for they scat- 
ter and hide behind every elevation 
from the great mountains and rocks to 
slender twigs and stones. 

They always hide on the side oppo- 
site from that which the sun lights, and 
as the great orb descends lower and 
lower in its journey, they lengthen as if 
growing with pride in their approach- 
ing victory. Their breaths are cool all 
the da} r , and cold as the day grows old. 

They win the people of the w r orld by 
their strange, soothing voices; for in 
all shadows a soft air whispers, which 
is not heard in the sun. 

But there is something treacherous 
in these voices, something deceptive in 
these cool gray shadows as they grow 
paler and gather more in one great 
body as the sun goes down. Strange, 
was it not, that one of these shadows 



50 SHADOWS. 

whispered one warm day its mission, 
saying that it w^as a part of night, 
which haunted da\ r ; that its duty and 
that of its family of shadows was to 
capture the earth for night just as 
soon as the sun went down? It said 
that no one of the people of the world 
had ever known that this was why the 
shadows always hid behind elevations, 
tiny twigs and stones and cast their 
lengths out as blots of night on the 
face of day, w r aiting for the sun to sink, 
then to collect in a body and cover the 
earth as night. 




ONE CHAPTER. 

'HEY had a tiny room, on the 

top floor, opening on the court, 

in the Hotel du Senat, rue de 

Tournon — he and little Marie. 

Life then was all he could have 

***tk — I wished — he loved. 

Every morning he crossed the Seine 
to study at the Julian School until 
twelve; then returned to Marie, who 
had prepared their mid-day meal. 

In the afternoon he painted in their 
room. True, it was not the best light, 
but he painted there, because she 
wanted him near her. 

In the evenings they sometimes had 
dinner at a neighboring cafe, and then 
went to the theatre. 

51 



52 ONE CHAPTER. 

He mingled little with his fellow- 
Americans, save in his classes, where 
he worked hard, and was recognized 
as a man of talent and promise. 

Weekly he received letters from 
home — encouraging letters from fond 
parents. 

It lasted two whole years. For 
two years he really loved; then came 
the cable from home, announcing his 
father's death. 

It was cruelly hard to leave at such 
a time, but it was necessary. 

Only one whole day they had to- 
gether before the steamer left. The 
pleasure and torture of that day ! 

Little Marie packed his clothes, 
which she had mended and cried over, 
then neatly folded. 

He is back in Paris now, and has 
never married. 



ONE CHAPTER. 



53 



Every All Souls' Day he wanders 
out to Pere-Lachaise, carrying two 
wreaths, — one large, the other small, — 
and places them on the one grave of 
mother and child. 





MOTHER AND SOX. 

}> HE old sexton of Pere-Lachaise 
knew everybody in Paris who 
had dear ones there, and he could 
accurately gauge the depth of 
sorrow and its possible duration 
in the breasts of regular visitors ; 
at least, he always said he could. 
New arrivals he hailed with a 
certain glee, and he ruminated over 
them, as any old gossip of Menilmoii- 
tant might, over a bit of precious 
scandal. 

Close to the entrance of the cem- 
etery passed a beautiful old silver- 
haired woman, bent with years. She 
carried flowers : it was All Souls' Day. 
The sexton knew her and saluted. She 

54 



MOTHER AND SON. 55 

was one of his favorites, and he often 
mused over her story. 

Her son had left Paris twenty-one 
years before, in the Two Hundred and 
Thirty-fifth Chasseurs, and had dis- 
tinguished himself in the Franco-Prus- 
sian War. The sexton had known 
him well as a small boy, coming g^g 
with his mother to visit his *? 4 
father's tomb. He must have 
been wicked then, for at one time 
he was caught digging into the mound 
of a grave, and any one who desecrates 
the sod over the dead is sure to come 
to a bad end. 

He made a good fighter and won 
a decoration, but murdered a lieuten- 
ant and was shot for it. His mother 
never knew this, however, and never 
will ; for his commanding officer hon- 
ored his war record, and spared her 
the truth. She believes, to-day, that 




56 



MOTHER AND SON. 




he fell at Sedan fighting; and weekly, 
for nineteen years, she has visited what 
she believes to be his grave; but it 
belongs to the sexton, this grave she 
'gr decorates: it covers his own child, 
who was killed at Bazeilles. 

As the old lady passed out, 
empty-handed, she looked up 
through her tears to bow 
again to the sexton. 



M. LE MINISTRE. 

He had been raised to the highest 
office in the diplomatic department of 
France, and was a universal favorite; 
but his wife few cared for, and all 
wondered at his ever having married 
her. 

They had never had a child. 

Whispered rumors, ripe with scan- 
dal, were breathed of her life prior to 
her marriage — but they were only 
breathed. 

Her husband knew nothing of them , 
and he idolized his wife. 

His position gave her unlimited 
power as a social leader, which she 
exercised, and of which he was proud. 
To be acknowledged by a card to one 

57 



58 M. LE MINISTRE. 

of her soirees was sought for with 
eagerness and recognized as an honor 
by social Paris. 

****** 

It was All Souls' Da} r , and almost 
sunset, when a rich equipage stopped 
within a few hundred feet of Pere- 
Lachaise, and Madame directed the 
coachman to wait for her return. 

Drawing her veil tightly over her 
face, she walked to the entrance of 
the cemetery and through it unno- 
ticed. 

She passed avenue after avenue of 
decorated graves, going on to the 
far limit of the consecrated ground, 
where she stopped before a very small 
mound, shaggy with grass and weeds. 
It was only a bunch of violets she 
dropped on the grave of her baby 
boy, whose father she had loved years 
ago, in the da} r s long before' she had 



M. LE MINISTRE. 



59 



married M- le Ministre — days of which 
whispered rumors still chronicled the 
history. 





TWO WOMEN. 



He had been brutal to her, 
f% his wife — brutal without cause. 



He often wondered at it, and de- 
spised himself for it. 
& It was hate, almost without rea- 
son, possibly because she made it so 
apparent to him that she loved and 
overlooked ; but it was principally be- 
cause she took no interest in his work. 
He had thought he cared for her 
when they were married, but he soon 
discovered that he did not love her. 

His art classes were large, and at 
them he met congenial, sympathetic 
beings. The physicians told him he 
worked too hard ; his wife, after pour- 
ing her domestic woes into his ears, 

60 



TWO WOMEN. 61 

added he was looking poorly, and he 
hated her for this ; but the little En- 
glish girl who had studied with him a 
year one day spoke of his failing 
health, and besought him to be more 
prudent, and he loved her the more 

for that. 

****** 

Two women yearly journey to Pere- 
Lachaise on All Souls' Day, one with 
a heavy veil thrown back from her 
face, over her shoulders. She goes in 
the early morning and places a wreath 
at the head of his grave. The other 
is still a young girl, always wear- 
ing a bit of black as a tie; 
she goes in the afternoon and wi 
scatters white roses at 
his feet. 




SLEEPING AND WAKING. 

It was night. Mind corraled its 
forces of still active Thoughts into a 
fold of rest. 

In this fold was an atmosphere of 
perfect peace, except when disturbed 
by a fickle corps of night fairies called 
Dreams. They came this night, after all 
was quiet, and with their strange voices 
and seductive manner drugged this army 
of drowsy Thoughts with a strange 
lotion called Sleep, and led it forth to 
Fields of Forgetfulness of Truth. Mind, 
which controlled Thoughts, also sipped 
of the lotion and was dulled . 

Then it was that parent Mind and 
children Thoughts wandered under the 
influence of their mystic guides through 

62 



SLEEPING AND WAKING. G3 

Elysian fields, then into the midst of 
strifes and scenes changing from the 
distinct life they had just left to in- 
distinct departed scenes and faces long 
since dead. And all the while Dreams 
held them with power. 

So they reveled and were sad in 
rapid changes ; nor did they stop for 
rest in their wanderings, until sudden- 
ly, just as the dawn of a new day 
was breaking, the crude hull in which 
Mind and her children lived tossed 
about as if wearied of its tenants' 
night chase. 

Then it was that Mind awakened 
from its stupor dazed — what was real, 
what was false? The fairies had fled 
after retreating night, and misguided 
Thoughts were forced by Reason back 
into the fold from which they had been 
enticed. Then again they rested. 

Soon the day awcikened, and with 



64 SLEEPING AND WAKING. 

it Mind, which was weary and ex- 
hausted by its reveling. Mind and 
Thoughts affected the hull — the crude 
hull, which always moved method- 
ically when directed by Mind. This 
hull is called man. The world was 
alive and active, and it pronounced 
man melancholy, morose. True, the 
world did not know it was all the 
fault of that night band of Dream 
fairies which had led both Mind and 
Thoughts on a debauch. 




FAN AND GLOVES. 



The delicate plumes, em- 
bedded in mother-of-pearl 
sticks, and frayed to curling 
edges, trembled, as the wind from the 
open door chilled them. They uncurled 
slowly, like vague thoughts finding ut- 
terance in speech. 

Where these minutely slender ten- 
dril feathers came to a point, they 
were tinted a pale shade of yellow; 
for Time had touched them with a 
brush dipped in a color called age. 

Through the small gold band, pierc- 
ing the end of the handle of the fan, 
was tied a long ribbon of white satin. 
A bow-knot partly hid the band, and 
the white fold, with the trembling cov- 
er. 



66 FAX AND GLOVES. 

erlet of feathers, seemed to make a 
fitting shroud for the small pair of 
gloves they rested on. 

The hand of one glove hung over 
the edge of the table, and just at the 
tip of the fingers, the soft white suede, 
had little marks of use. 

The fingers of the other glove were 
huddled together under the fan. 

Any one would have known that 
the fan and gloves had been costly. 
Few could have correctly told their 
age, and the most casual observer 
would have wondered at their pres- 
ence in this miserable garret-room, 
whose furniture consisted of a table, 
single chair, and a mattress on the 
floor, beside which was an overturned 
bottle and an empty box. 

****** 

It was All Souls' Day, and hun- 
dreds in Paris journeyed to Pere- 



FAN AND GLOVES. 67 

Lachaise, there to revive sorrow, and 
honor it with some outward form. 
All Souls' Day was garlanded with 
memories for him, but they consisted 
of funeral wreaths only. 

Life once had been living, for he had 
loved and had been loved. 

Then came the day when he had 
left her in Pere-Lachaise, — from that 
time he had counted the life of the 
fan and the gloves, and this was their 
fifteenth anniversary. 

Wealth and the brightest prospects 
had been his — but after she had rested 
for a year in the old cemetery, pros- 
perity began to forsake him ; ambition 
now had no raison d'etre. He re- 
membered discovering the fan and 
gloves, on his return from that first 
visit to Pere-Lachaise. 

They were in a box, and he recalled 
the delicate odor, as he had lifted them 




68 FAN AND GLOVES. 

out carefully and cried over them. 

Treasured belongings and mementos 

went one by one. Fifteen years found 

^ ife- them all gone except the fan and 

the gloves with which he had 

never parted, but ,he looked at 

them only once a year, on All Souls' 

Day, when he took them out and placed 

them on the table. One other thing 

was left him, a blurred memory, and 

he took that with him this day as he 

started out to Pere-Lachaise. 

He tried hard, returning, to smother 
the thought, as he walked along the 
streets, that in his garret room were 
the fan and gloves, and an empty bot- 
tle, and that for the former he could 
certainly get five francs, and with that 
fill the latter. 

Fifteen years can bring many 
changes, and he had guarded as his 
life during that period the fan and 



FAN AND GLOVES. 69 

gloves. But five francs was a great 
amount of money to him now, and the 
overturned bottle bj r the mattress was 
empty — he could see it as he reached 
with exertion the top flight. 

It would have seemed the fan di- 
vined his thoughts for the delicate 
plumes, embedded in mother-of-pearl 
sticks, and frayed to curling- edges, 
trembled as the wind from the open 
door chilled them. 





THE OTHER SIDE OF THE 
PICTURE. 

Could one collect and take 
w ( ) from Paris all the characters re- 
^^ sembling Annette's, a colony com- 
prising many hundred souls would be 
formed — for Annette was a grisette. 
Now this sounds exaggerated — the 
truth often does. And what would 
cause the foreheads of the so-called 
virtuous to draw up in deep wrinkles 
above the nose, and their eyes to 
assume a blank, though conversant 
expression, and their whole attitude 
manifest mortification and offended 
dignity, would be to say that Annette 
was a noble character. We'll away 
with her early life, unless you over 

70 



THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 71 

yonder — you, with that self-sufficient 
air — wish to stand and act as her 
judge, and, being a mortal like herself, 
throw the first stone, which must mul- 
tiply and build a monument of guilt 
over her, according to the charity of 
mankind. 

Annette had once had a sister, who 
lived in a small town in the province 
of Gascony. This sister died a widow 
and penniless, leaving crippled twins. 
She had not suffered want, however; 
for Annette had mailed weekly a man- 
dnt de poste ; and strange, is it not, 
to think where the many daily prayers 
from this poor widow had gone, pray- 
ers that blessed and pleaded for bless- 
ings on the life and being of Annette's 
husband? For this sister in Paris had 
drawn many a picture of the great 
and good character of that husband, 
and had often had brought letters 



72 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 

forged, as coming from him to the sis- 
ter fast dying far away in Gascom*. 
This is another crime Annette commit- 
ted : she lied very often to lighten the 
burden of life for that invalid. 

A grisette is bad ; but a Wmg 
one, 3 t ou say, is worse. An- 
nette was not rich, but she 
took the children to live with 
her. 
A young art student lived in a room 
on the seventh floor, next to the one 
occupied by Annette and her little 
crippled charges, and he will never 
forget the talks he overheard between 
the little ones and their aunt-mother. 
They were always of love, purit\ r , and 
honesty. 

He also noticed when the cold No- 
vember days came, that Annette grew 
thin and delicate, and that she paused 
and breathed heavily for a long time 




THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 73 

in front of the two chairs holding 
the little cripples, before she could talk 
to them or give them the additional 
kisses they begged for. 

The twins were just six ; but they 
looked much older, with their crooked 
necks and bent spines. Annette was 
then thirty-five. 

Bread is hard to get after a woman 
is thirty -five, and has lived the life of 
Annette. She had wrinkles, her hair 
was touched with gray, and her figure 
was wasting away ; but her heart 
grew larger, for she lived on the 
thought of coming home and feeling 
those thin little arms about her neck 
— arms that belonged to pure little 
beings, 

* * * * * * 

The young student supposed they 
had moved, and realized something 
had gone out of his life. He missed 



74 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 

hearing their voices at night, and par- 
ticular^ the little French prayers 
which Annette had taught the crip- 
ples, and which they repeated together 
so sweetly to her. 

Death by starvation had occurred 
in the student's hotel before, but three 
in one night was a great number ; but 
then she was a grisette, and what a 
blessing for the children ! 

The student had never spoken to 
her — only nodded as they passed on 
the vStairs ; but he had to stint himself 
considerably the next year, for he 
bought the little space in Pere-La- 
chaise, which swallowed up mother- 
aunt and the two cripples. But since 
then he has become a great painter, 
and has enclosed the little spot, and 
never fails on All Souls' Day to cover 
the graves with flowers; for he said — 
strange though it seems to you — that 



THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 



Annette had taught him a religion, 
even though she had never spoken to 
him, and was a grisette. 




TWILIGHT. 

Over the earth there silent- 
ly floated a thin veil, and 
through the delicate texture, 
rays of the sinking sun were 
§p2 sifted as from the hand of an 
ancient sower, and fell in a 
shower of golden grain over the green 
fields and on the bosom of the water. 
In the east the meshes of this ether- 
eal covering were tightry woven. From 
overhead to the far west its fleecy 
body was borne on gentle winds and 
frayed into trembling fringe, which 
mingled with pearly clouds covering 
the face of the blushing horizon. 

The hearts of these clouds shone 
like great opals in irregular settings 

76 



TWILIGHT. 77 

of burnished gold. They lingered on 
this western border-line as sentinels, 
their faces telling the story of the de- 
parting day-watcher. 

The smile of a fading sun left its 
warmth on the velvet fields of green, 
and here and there in earth's dimples 
the sunlight settled in little pools on 
the tufts of grass, and sparkled like 
running rivulets of mingled molten 
silver and gold. 

Sharply cut silhouettes of naked 
trees, with their network of limbs and 
branches, made elaborate chased de- 
signs, enameled on the surface of the 
sky. 

The winding river borrowed a pearl 
flush from the clouds, and caught the 
reflection of their deep blush from the 
far heaven ; its water rose and fell like 
a soft breast in peaceful slumber, each 
breath creating new colors. 



78 TWILIGHT. 

The veil wound itself closer and 
closer about the drowsy earth, crowd- 
ing the beautiful tints nearer and 
nearer, yet never destroying the mar- 
velous blending on this pallet of 
nature ; slowly like fluids they mingled 
into a shimmering harmony, their 
brightness dulled by this night cloak, 
whose meshes w^ere woven tighter, 
screening the light from the eyes of a 
drowsy world. 

Silently and more closely the dark 
veil gathered. Yet to destroy the 
gloom a supernatural hand tore a 
myriad of tiny holes in the black 
mantle at which were placed the silver 
lanterns of heaven. 




A SYMPHONY OF 
THE SEA. 



jHE had heard this voice of 
the sea called a symphony. 
What meant symphony to 
her? Her mind had known no sym- 
phony but madness, since he had left 
that little hamlet on the bluff to steal 
from the deep its life, and the deep in 
turn to steal his. 

And now to her the wicked, break- 
ing waves carried a weird theme of 
only a few notes, repeated often and 
plainly heard despite the discord in 
the vast chorus, as it swelled and 
changed. 

There! She heard those three suc- 
cessive breakers scream, as they hurled 

79 



80 



A SYMPHONY OF THE SEA. 




: 



themselves on land, "On lives we live!" 
The wind was her friend, for it 
swallowed up the sound, and then 
raced out to sea to meet the incoming 
swells, and lash their curved bodies 
into shrouds of foam and 
harmless mist, as the}- 
uttered their wild notes, 
4 'On lives we live !" Then 
the wind turned traitor, 
for she heard it join in 
what they called the sym- 
phony, and in perfect ac- 
cord with that murder- 
ous in-coming tide shriek, 
IT e are one! On lives we live! " 
It blew her torn garments about 
her bod}^, now fast growing cold ; 
whipped her scanty growth of hair 
around her thin neck, and dashed the 
dead force of the spent waves in clam- 
my moisture against her face and 




A SYMPHONY OF THE SEA. 



81 



wild dry eyes — but it could not still her 
dying cry, " Traitors, on lives they 
live!" 




MOTHERHOOD. 

The soft wind from the sea whis- 
pered in a strange though intelligible 
language, a message of soothing sym- 
pathy, as it caressed her burning tem- 
ples and breathed its cooling breath 
through her waving hair, which ran 
riot in little ringlets over a pale fore- 
head. 

This voice from the sea, blended 
with the tiny waves of pure air, which 
raced along ihe strand and stopped 
just long enough to gently encircle and 
embrace her, while whispering "Love 
and Motherhood"; then the waves of 
air sped away to make room for the 
coming ones, who had a similar greet- 
ing. All seemed in perfect harmony 

82 



MOTHERHOOD. 83 

and sympathy, and the rich crim- 
son, which started in two tiny 
spots on her pale cheeks and 
spread to her temples, always came 
when these truant winds murmured 
her own secret to her. But she loyed 
them and loved the sea ^SSgg^S" * 



and the clear sky, for surely ^S&*~, 
they knew the true and pure - *** 
value of that flush of pride. So it 
was she stopped in her wanderings 
where an old bent pine screened 
with its scantily clothed body the 
faces of the sun's rays, making a 
small purple shadow, and, seated here, 
while looking far out on the sea she 
loved, she slept and dreamed. 

She was Queen - Regent , with that 
precious weight in her arms : the 
gnarled old pine was changed to a 
great throne. Her counselors were the 
sea, the sky, and the winds — long, 




84 MOTHERHOOD. 

white -bearded, benevolent old men; 
they were her vassals, too, for they 
did her bidding. Often they gazed at 
that small, silent body in her lap. 

Then over the bosom of the sea, 
to her very throne, sailed a fleet of 
richly laden galleys, whose masters 
came to offer gifts, from their rare 
cargoes one gave riches, another in- 
fluence, another the power to gratify 
all ambitions . One by one they came, 
one by one they departed, the oars in 
the hands of the chained slaves flash- 
ing like the silver fins of huge fishes. 

But there was a great weight on 
her heart, and she scanned the horizon 
for another sail, and her counselors 
left her to walk to the water's edge, 
that they might better see, and all the 
while the little weight never moved. 
Then, far away on the horizon, 
appeared another sail, which flew 



MOTHERHOOD. 80 

towards her on the wings of the wind. 
Its keel grated on the white sand and 
its yotmg master sprang out , kneeling 
at her feet, and cried: "I bring Life." 
Then it was , with her eyes filled with 
tears of joy, and the precious little 
moving body pressed to her breast, 
that her counselors left her, and she 
awoke, but she heard their soothing 
chant coming from the breaking wave, 
the swelling sea, the clear sky, and the 
soft air — "Life, Love, Motherhood," 





WINTER WINDS. 

These northern winds, which 
haunted the eaves of the old 
house, were like the smothered 
\ \ voices of an army of soulless, 
, '/.J wandering dead — now mur- 
' muring in quiet whispers, 
^ y now swelling into wails of dis- 
tress. They seemed to carry the 
moans of the multitude drowned, 
whose tide-tossed souls ever pleaded 
for rest from the wearisome ebb. 

Pitiable sobs joined the dirge- 
chorus, swallowed up instantly by 
piercing curses, as from the host of 
damned, racing through the air in 
furious flight from some fiendish pur- 
suer; they were gone, and their tracks 

86 



WINTER WINDS. 87 

were covered by soft, plaintive whis- 
pers, dreamily vibrating into a 
mother's sweet lnllaby, hummed to a 
drowsy babe in arms. 

The winds swelled to a great chant 
in weird minor tones, like a band of 
dancing fiends, yet strangely harmon- 
izing in this wild natural symphony. 

All was hushed again, save a few- 
wandering and scattered winds that 
had loitered or strayed from the great 
body gone before. They cried at the 
door; they stole softly under the 
eaves ; and with trembling voices 
sought direction for their lost way. 
Their cold breath penetrated the 
room, chasing in fright great flames 
from the burning log high in air and 
up the walls of the vast chimney-place. 

Then came the deep tones of the 
returning force. These delinquent 
winds were missed, and with howling 



88 WINTER WINDS. 

fury the main body came rushing back 
from every compass-point, with an- 
gered mutterings, encircling the house 
with hellish 3-ells, tearing at doors 
and windows, and screaming through 
crevices to regain the lost. 

The night seemed alive with demons. 
The huge log tottered and fell from 
the fender, the candle flickered and 
was out; the room became as cold as 
death, and the lost were carried away — 
their weird screams of delight sounding 
shrill above the bass moanings and 
wailings of the departing many-voiced 
wraiths. 




IN HARBOR. 



&- Patched hulls of 
salters from Cadiz, 
green - coated, ' scarred 
and pitted with barna- 
cles, rested against the old 
weather-beaten wharves, 
as if for breath after their ocean 
journeys. 

In their half-furled sails they caught 
light from the retreating sun, which 
settled in little pools and changed in 
color as the hulls rose and fell on the 
breast of the breathing sea. 

Their naked topmasts on one side 
were dark and sharp in outline, on the 
other they were burnished like yellow 
gold. 

89 



90 IN HARBOR. 

The wind hushed its breath and 
silently stole away on tiptoe over the 
water until the sun, gazing in its sea 
mirror, had combed its wealth of soft 
hair, which flowed along the western 
sky in masses of ringlets. 

The old hulls were quick to see the 
vanity of the sun, and as it sank slowly 
down in the west they leaned farther 
over in their rockings and created tiny 
trembling waves, which spread far over 
the waters and destroyed for a moment 
the beautiful reflection of the sun. 

Then these old vessels threw into the 
sea their own outlines, with all the 
beauty of color made by years of use 
and decay, and they held themselves 
perfectly still until their forms were 
cast in duplicate mould in the body of 
the water. The white and rose tinted 
sails were distinctly repeated as the 
trembling waters stilled and many 



IN HARBOR. 91 

hundred fingers dipped on one side with 
molten gold vibrated on the mirror's 
face. 

For a few seconds the perfect picture 
remained, then it was rudely obliter- 
ated by a little black boat, 
propelled by a lone figure 
silhouetted as it shot 
out from the dark 
shadow of the wharf 
into the light. 

Only the oars of the 
boat caught any of the bright- i_ L 
ness of the color; they dipped deep and 
captured on their blades great wash- 
ings of red and gold, which had been 
stolen by the sea from the sun's toilet 
and secreted just below the surface of 
the water. Soon the little boat was 
lost again in shadow. Strange voices 
of Spaniards droned the change of 
watch on this fleet of salters. 




92 IN HARBOR. 

Two figures stood on the edge of the 
old wharf. One saw all that harmoni- 
ous beauty, and, like the oars of the 
boat, stole as much of it as his brain 
could retain for his future paint- 
ings. The other figure, the one with 
bronzed face and shaggy white beard, 
only saw the patched and barnacled 
hulls, the torn sails and the opened 
seams pleading for calking. This was 
all he noticed, as he wondered if he 
would ever again see far-away Cadiz. 








SILVER SANDS. 

For miles stretches a floor of silver 
sand. 

The sun has bleached that palor on 
its face — a deathly pallor. 

The stni and the sea are foes, and 
their battle-ground is that floor of 
silver sand ; for when the mighty waves 
dash in to cool the parched face and 
quench the thirst of the sand, how 
quickly the sun blows with force its 
heated breath and dries the moisture! 

93 



94 SILVER SANDS. 

Then again for miles stretches a flow 
of silver sand. 

The knotted old pines on the knoll 
turn their heads and bend their bodies 
from the sea, and the tall, thin, burnt 
brown grasses lean inland and tremble 
at the cry of thirst from the burning 
sand they live in. But they are slaves, 
these trees and weeds — slaves to the 
sun. They dare not do otherwise than 
feign rebellion for the sea. 

Only when the sun lowers its proud 
and cruel head is is that these trees 
and grasses raise their crooked forms 
and open their mouths for the moist 
kiss of night ; only when the silver 
sand has slaked its thirst, and the 
rising tide, unchecked by the sun, has 
bathed it, do these cowards turn their 
faces seaward. 

What hypocrites, these slaves of 
the sun, for on the morrow, when the 



SILVER SANDS. 



95 



day awakes and the sun and the sea 
carry on their never-ending combat, 
they play again their part, with backs 
to the sea, while at their feet for miles 
stretches a floor of silver sand. 





A LOG FIRE. 

>HE great logs seemed 
living things, whose life 
was plainly marked by irreg- 
ular breathings of colored 
flames; whose language was 
voiced by sharp crackles, emitting a 
thousand miniature stars, "which shot 
upward through the great chimney- 
place to the outside darkened world, 
and were wafted to settle on the bare 
limbs of trembling trees and there bear 
messages from the burning pine. 

The flames grew about the entire 
body of the logs — chasing, leaping, 
winding, like a nest of warmed snakes 
— twisting and crowding, then growing 
wicked and wildly writhing. 

96 



A LOG FIRE. 97 

Now one less fortunate than the 
others was hurled off suddenly and 
choked crimson ; fangs were created 
by the thin threads of black smoke, 
and the log's surface consumed in a 
bright flame which leaped high against 
the side walls and was lost. The once 
rich brown clothing on this monarch 
of the forest now grew black, and 
great rents exposed the pure white 
body beneath, which had for half a |^ 
century been protected by the 
warm coat of bark. 

The log trembled and fell from 
the rack of the andirons, and up "" 
fled a host of messages again to light 
the face of night and stamp their 
blackened, tiny bodies on the hearts 
of the snowflakes fast falling. 

Big tears trickled down its browned 
ends ; but they were quickly dried bj r 
a flame which stole from underneath, 




98 



A LOG FIRE. 



leaping and consuming as if offended 
by this expression of sadness. 




THE TWO DESTINIES. 



Her figure was tall and 
gaunt; yellow sun-dried % r - 
hair matted itself into —^5 
thin cords, and hung over a ' . j|^ 
defined skull, only covered 

' ! nirpilTMil 

with a skin like parchment. llTlTnffn 
The hair broke its regular 

lines as it fell on high, square 

shoulders. It had not the appearance 

of a live growth, but of thriving on 

nourishment after death. 

Her eyes were so light that at times 

one would think their resting-places 

empty sockets. 

The mouth expressed firmness and 

cruelty, and lacked about it those lines 

which are born only of smiles. 

99 




100 THE TWO DESTINIES. 

Her dark garb was more like a 
skin than a garment; and though it 
was loosely draped, as if to better dis- 
guise her wasted figure, it contracted 
and expanded with her breathing. 

In her hands, which were long and 
bony, she held a book — a curious vol- 
ume, bound in deep red, with its pages 
bordered with black. She opened it, 
and started down the avenue leading 
to the city of Unborn Souls. 

She was Nature's Assassin. 

It was not a walk with w r hich she 
moved, but a glide, like a serpent 
crawling on, inch by inch, to its para- 
lyzed prey; and her eyes shone with 
the changing dulled effect of an opal. 

Soon she arrived at the great gate- 
way leading into the city, where mil- 
lions of the yet unborn were to have 
a brand scorched on their future ex- 
istence by the touch of her finger, 



THE TWO DESTINIES. 101 

The future of those whom .she 
claimed as her own was to be re- 
corded in that book, with its leaves 
bound in blood-stains, and its edges 
stamped with death. 

Her pace quickened as she passed 
through the gateway, down the 
broad avenue, bathed in morning 
sunshine, and bordered with blos- 
soming flowers of every clime. %/ ,~ 



^h 




No human life could be seen. 
Everywhere were flowers budding and 
blooming — a city peopled only with 
blossoms. 

Quickly she stooped, and with those 
long fingers plucked petal after petal 
from the flowers ; then broke stem 
after stem of the most beautiful, until 
all along the line, thousands were 
uprooted, beheaded, blighted, and 
wounded by this merciless fiend called 
Destiny. 



102 THE TWO DESTINIES. 

Her ferocity and brutality increased 
as she advanced. 

Behind her came the most beautiful 
of women, with a face of pure love 
and a mouth expressing mercy. Her 
great wealth of hair fell in soft masses 
over her shoulders down to her waist. 

She was enveloped in a pure white 
garment, fleecy like a cloud. She fol- 
lowed those footsteps of destruction 
and vainly strove to save life. Her 
name, too, was Destiny: she was Life 
in Nature. 

As she advanced she lifted bent and 

broken stems from the ground, and 

caressed and coaxed many to life ; but 

thousands were already dead. 

* # * * * * 

It was dusk w^hen the two figures 
returned to the gates of the city of 
Unborn Souls. 

The first stopped and leaned against 



THE TWO DESTINIES. 103 

the wall, pale but satisfied as she 
scanned the pages of that fearful record 
and rapidly summed up the results. 

Against the other wall leaned the 
beautiful figure who had followed her. 

Her face was bright with smiles as 
she thought of the lives she had saved ; 
but then her glance fell on the wilted 
and wounded flowers in her arms, and 
her eyes were overflow-ing with tears. 




DREAMS. 

Throughout all the day, Thought 
visitors came and went through the 
audience-chambers of Brain. Mam- of 
them had been there before, and often 
brought with them new kin called 
Ideas. 

Some of these new guests were wel- 
comed warmly, others coldly. Thus 
Brain was occupied with the reception 
of Day Thoughts ; but there were many 
who, unbidden, sought entrance and 
were debarred. These still waited out- 
side. 

Then Night drew near in its perpet- 
ual flight. Its great outstretched wings 
covered the earth, casting a great 
shadow. 

104 



DREAMS. 105 

The last guest of Brain had de- 
parted. 

Gathered in small groups outside 
the threshold, concealed and protected 
by the shadow and silence of Night, 
were the body of Thoughts, who had 
waited all the bright day, seeking an 
entrance, but had failed. 

Now they plotted and planned, and 
when the watchman, Sleep, went his 
rounds, they silently glided after him, 
and edged one by one into the cham- 
bers of Brain. They roamed through 
the vacant halls, where Day Thoughts 
had been so lately welcomed. All was 
dark and confused. Some crept stealth- 
ily from room to room ; others were less 
guarded, and roamed carelessly about, 
asserting themselves in their true char- 
acters, and hideously masquerading as 
phantoms of Day Thoughts. 




REALIZATION. 

She had been born of ordinary 
parentage, and reared in an atmos- 
phere whose outskirts were semi- 
poverty — a noble girl, whose only 
marriage-dot was her virtue. 
When he would have wedded her, 
his family objected; they had for gen- 
erations been reared in luxury — and 
their name ! 

His career had been that of a man 
of the world. His life had been shield- 
ed by a mantle embroidered with his 
coat -of- arms, which necessarily cov- 
ered a multitude of sins and indiscre- 
tions. 

True, had he not borne such a family 
name, and retained a few redeeming 

106 



REALIZATION. 107 

traits of polish derived from education 
and contact, he would have been 
termed an idle, dissipated roue; but 
then family and name elevated trifling 
failings, and created for him this title, 
"a man of the world." 

Certainly, the pure, innocent little 
girl, whose terrible crime, past redemp- 
tion, was poverty and lack of name, 
must be even lower than his family had 
thought her, when she dared care for 
their only son. But this man of the 
world admired purity and honesty, and 
so he sacrificed his unspotted self — for- 
ever contaminated his name and dulled 
the bright burnish on the family es- 
cutcheon, by marrying her. 

Love ! love sounds mild for her idol- 
atry for this man, who, for a whole 
year, lived as a man should. 

Then came the birth of a boy babe. 
Most "men of the world" celebrate a 




108 REALIZATION. 

similar event. This one did — and died 
in the embrace of rum. Perfectly nat- 
ural, was it not, that his family should 
heap their curses on her head ? She 
had killed him. Recognize the child ? 
Certainly not, for they called them- 
selves of the old school. 
So the dear little mother toiled, 
depriving herself — educating and 
clothing the child just as she im- 
agined his father would have had 
her do. 

This boy was shrewd, — but rumors 
heard by the young often do not ma- 
terialize until more mature years are 
reached. She went to Pere-Lachaise 
weekly, and laid her poor little heart 
bare, as she minutely reviewed her life, 
in whispered sobs, over that mound. 

The boy remembered having gone 
with her to the cemetery when he was 
a child, and always associated with 



REALIZATION. 109 

these visits fallen leaves, tears, and a 
long black veil. 

Twenty -four years sometimes roll 
by before a character is born. This 
boy dates the birth of the formation of 
his from the morning when, in walking 
off the dissipation of the night before, 
he strolled through Pere-Lachaise and 
unconsciously found himself led to the 
avenue he associated with those early 
visits. 

He had not gone far before he recog- 
nized the bent figure and the long black 
veil, and at his feet fallen leaves. 

As he took his little mother in his 
arms, he noted for the first time the 
patched shoes, the threadbare dress, 
and the lack of a wrap. Then he re- 
alized how the woman had sacrificed 
herself; how deceived she had been ; 
how she loved, and how much he was 
like what his father had been. 




SEARCHING AFTER TRUTH. 

" Truth lies at the bottom 
of a well," so the people of 
the world told her. 
She was young and fair, 
and she searched for Truth; 
but her frequent visits to the 
well brought no discovery — only 
the reflection of her beautiful face in 
the water. 

One night a knock came at her door, 
and she sprang up and opened it. 

There on the threshold stood a bun- 
dle of rags, which moved as if breath- 
ing. She shuddered as she asked, " Who 
are you ? ' ' 

Then came the answer, "I_ am 
Truth." 

no 



SEARCHING AFTER TRUTH. Ill 

"I would see your face! " she cried. 

"Nay, innocent one, my face is not 
fair to look upon — but I am Truth. " 
The cold wind was blowing and 
crying, and she closed the door. The 
Truth she sought was pure and beau- 
tiful, not loathsome, and with the 
conviction of youth she was satisfied 
with herself for having refused this 
gruesome thing admittance. From 
that day, however, strange visitors 
knocked at her door, and each called 
himself Truth. 

First came a gay party of dancers, 
whose graceful figures, swaying to 
and fro, captivated her fancy ; their 
musical voices held her as in their 
thrall. Their visit was like a delightful 
dream, and she asked: "Pray tell me 
who you are?" and they answered: 
"We are Truth." So she believed for 
days ; then she realized her mistake, 



112 SEARCHING AFTER TRUTH. 

and that they were not Truth, but 
Pleasure. Again she went to the well, 
but there found nothing. 

A day dawned brightly, and there 
came another knock. 

On her threshold stood a lovely 
child. 

Its hair was garlanded with flowers 
and its garb was spotless white. 

When it entered, it was as if a 
portion of the pure light of the sun 
had stolen into the room. 

The child's arms were soon en- 
twined about the neck of the seeker 
after Truth. 

The odor of the blossoms intoxi- 
cated her. Her heart beat with wild 
delight ; a tender kiss was stamped on 
her brow, and, with a gentle whisper, 
" I am Truth," the child was gone, and 
at her feet buds blossomed. The room 
was lighter than it had been for years. 



SEARCHING AFTER TRUTH. 113 

The memory of that vision remained 
with her a long time; but at last it 
fled, and then she knew it was Love, 
not Truth. 

Again she went to the well, yet 
found nothing. 

Years after, another knock came. 
Her heart beat fast as the figure of a 
man entered. His manner was flat- 
tering and full of grace; his face 
seemed honest. 

She had never felt the influence # of 
other visitors exerted over her with 
the power of this one. 

She dared not ask his name, but as 
he left, he said, pressing her hand, "I 
am Truth." 

For years she believed it: then 
came doubt and she saw what had 
been her ideal of Truth was only 
Policy. 

The next visitor was a long-bearded, 



114 SEARCHING AFTER TRUTH. 

bent old man, whose face was fur- 
rowed and whose hands were palsied. 

From his feeble lips came the 
words, "I am Truth." His sta}~ was 
short, but she remembered that visitor ; 
oft, when the days were drear, she 
saw before her the trembling hands, 
the thin, snow-white locks, the bent 
form and the quivering lips, and she 
believed she had found Truth. 

But she was growing older now, 
and something told her that Sorrow 
was not Truth. Then she went to the 
well, and it was dry. But there, far 
down in its depths, she saw a toad. 
"Who are you?" she cried, and a hol- 
low voice replied, "I am Tradition." 
So she turned her face towards home, 
and knew that the whole world lied 
and was deceived. 

That same night came a knock at 
her door. She rose slowly and opened 



SEARCHING AFTER TRUTH. 115 

it. There stood the strange creature, 
covered with rags — her first visitor. 

" What would you ? Who are you ? " 

Then came the answer, "I am 
Truth." 

"I would see your face," she mur- 
mured. 

* : Nay, experienced one, my face is 
not fair to see; but I am Truth." 

"Yet would I see it," she made an- 
swer ; " For well know I that Truth is 
not what we would have it — nor is it 
fair." 

Then the figure threw off its rag 
covering, and before her stood a skele- 
ton. 

Now she knew her life-search was 
ended, and that she had at last found 
Truth. 



STARS. 

When Night hides not beyond its 
bulwarks of scowling cloud, the floor 
of heaven is set with polished mosaics. 
This floor is the ceiling of the world ; 
and earth's people never weary in their 
study of these mosaics, which they call 
Stars. 

The brilliancy of the gems in 
heaven's floor is never known, for 
their powerful radiance is screened 
by a soft haze of atmosphere, which 
changes in light and shadow during 
its allotted Duty, until it gradually 
fades from color to color, and becomes 
a black curtain. 

Long before this screen of Light and 
Darkness performed its even duty, one 

116 



STARS. 117 

of the mosaic jewels loosened and fell, 
and its sparkling body in flight was 
shattered into tiny fragments, which 
illuminated the dark face of space. 

With this outcast jewel an evil and 
rebellious spirit was hurled. Then 
came the creation of the earth, and 
the scattered dust from the destroyed 
jewel, which had been blown for ages 
in space, sank into the depths of the 
new creation — and the Evil Spirit was 
glad. 

Then man was made to complete 
the earth; but he was not satisfied 
until he had dug and discovered frag- 
ments of that mosaic, with which he 
adorned himself, cultivating pride and 
covetousness. 

Ever since Man has watched the 
floor of heaven, hoping to see other 
jewels destroyed and thrown into 
space and shattered on his world, 



118 STARS. 



When one falls, he calls it a shooting 
star, and wonders only where it goes, 
and never dreams it has a warning for 
him in its fall. 





THE FOUR -LEAF CLOVER. 

It lifted its jeweled and 
slender body from the earth. 
Slowly it unfolded and ex- 
posed its heart for the em- 
brace of that insinuating 
robber from the east, who, while 
giving the warm kiss of morning 
to this newly born, quickly stole every 
sparkling gem from the four pale up- 
turned leaves. 

. It was not strange, after this first 
draught of life, that this frail shoot, 
with its delicate petals, should wonder 
at the fearful mistake made by Nature ; 
for surrounding it were hundreds of its 
kind, save that they had but three 
leaves turned to the face of the sun. 

119 



120 THE FOUR-LEAF CLOVER. 

So it was that the trembling new- 
born, abashed at the misfortune which 
had befallen it, threw its whole strength 
of life into three of those little leaves 
branching from its heart, and tried to 
deprive the fourth of all nourishment, 
so that it might wither and die. Grad- 
ually the neglected leaf dropped its 
little head to the shadow-line of the 
three lifted above it. It would have 
perished without honor, and the cruel- 
ty of its parent-clover would never 
have been known had not a laddie, 
while wandering over the lea to his 
lassie, implored the aid of the Fates. 

There at his feet was the sign. So 
the lassie pressed it in her prayer-book, 
and the three leaves are now cherished 
for the existence of the other — the 
small one they would have killed. 



THE PRIEST. 

Pere Dominique was regarded with 
idolatrous reverence by those who 
confessed to him. It was a reverence 
void of fear, for he won the hearts 
while trying to save the souls of these 
peasants who had built a tiny hameau 
on the Brittany coast. 

He was young. His work did not 
begin and end with the mass. It en- 
tered into the homes and daily walks of 
every being in the flock he guarded, and 
he received his reward — for these peas- 
ants loved him, and believed in him. 
Purity is often assumed, but on Pere 
Dominique's face it was stamped. 
They loved him more as he wasted 
away, and when his cough caused 
121 




122 THE PRIEST. 

halts in the mass and sermon, every 
heart in his congregation felt a secret 
dread. 

His little house consisted of two 
ground-floor rooms, and it was in the 
one he called a study they found him. 

In one hand was clasped a crucifix ; 
in the other an open locket, which 
held a miniature of a young girl's 
head. Some might have called this 
sin, but not the people of the hameau: 
the peasants loved him even more 
when they found that locket. 

When his eyes for the last time had 
looked on that face, she in la Couvent 
de Notre Dame de Bon Secours was 
praying for the whole world, and sob- 
bing her nightly prayer for the one 
whom she had loved, not knowing he 
little needed prayer. 

* * * ■* * * 

If they both sinned, whose fault 



THE PRIEST. 



123 



was it — that of the parents who had 
thoughtlessly brought them into the 
world; that of the church which 
taught remunciation, or that of the 
Bon Dieu who had given them power 
to love? 




WOOD NYMPH. 

Her face and figure were as elusive 
as the graceful rising and disappearing 
of the silver mists of early morn. 

Her home was the dense wild-wood, 
where she left a trace of her mystic 
presence on even the smallest blade of 
green growing in the dark shadows 
which struggled to liberate its slender 
body from its cradle-coffin — earth. 

The great oak would have been the 
wood nymph's lover, for his whole 
body swayed with pride when she hov- 
ered for a moment in his shade, while 
he uttered with his trembling leaf-lips 
a musical message of love. When this 
mysterious fairy, her hair garlanded 
with wild flowers which never with- 

124 



WOOD NYMPH. 125 

ered, ran quickly from the shadow of 
the oak into the light, and there look- 
ing high above, concealed something in 
her breast, the great oak stood motion- 
less in his stately jealousy. 

The bow of the sun was bent, and 
its darts of ray-beams flew through 
space to the dense, wild -wood. As 
they neared the earth they were shat- 
tered into millions of fragments, which 
pierced the gloom and dispelled it. 

The fall of these heaven-sent darts 
was broken by the uplifted heads of the 
mighty old oaks in the dense wild- 
wood. 

These monarchs tenderly extended 
their many arms to lighten the fall of 
the messengers of life and light, and in 
a deep coating of gold some settled on 
the trembling leaves, and some on the 
ferns and wild -flowers; others embed- 
ded themselves into Nature's cushions 



126 WOOD NYMPH. 

of moss, and still others were secreted 
in the breast of the little wood nymph, 
who fled quickly to her charges, the 
delicate shoots struggling for life 
in the dark shadows of the dense 
wild-wood. 

On them she breathed the breath of 
life, giving warmth she had caught as 
the ray-darts fell. 

Such is the mission of the wood 
nymph. She has no plighted love, 
for all her tenderness is given to the 
weak of her wild-wood home. 




"THE SINS OF THE FATHERS." 

)ASTILIAN blood flowed in 
her veins. It was not neces- 
sary to have this told, for in 
her eyes history was written. 
She was intended for one of her 
own blood. She had been so 
taught and so believed, until a 
stranger came from the far north 
to old Mexico, the land of her 
adoption. 

History was also written in his 
great blue eyes, which were fringed 
with long black lashes. These eyes told 
of her ancestors, whose ambition 
prompted them to leave Spain for the 
little northern isle — where they sinned. 
Of all this these two never thought. 

127 



128 "THE SINS OF THE FATHERS." 

That which held her most was the ex- 
pression of his eyes — so honest they 
seemed, so full of love. He smiled 
when the little romance was over, and 
he returned to the north, and he told 
it all — not in detail, but in outline, to 
the one he loved. 

She? But she was of Castilian 
blood, and was intended, so the laws of 
her people decreed, for one of her own; 
and she took one, and that makes this 
story. Those blue eyes had done their 
part in avenging the sins of her con- 
quering forefathers. 

She used the stiletto to free herself. 
It is not strange, though, that while 
counting her beads and listening to the 
mass for the dead — a mass for which she 
pays —that at times she forgets and un- 
consciously prays for one who is happy 
with another in the far north ; but for 
this she always does penance. 



THE TABLET. 

You may see these tablets on the 
walls of the "Basilica" at Lourdes 
Je te remercie, O Notre Dame de 
Lourdes d'avoir exauce ma priere 
The thanks may be for a babe, so long 
wished for; for the restoration of a 
half-dead husband, the recovery from 
some dread disease, or the killing of a 
once daily sin : but in this church there 
is one tablet on which thanks are 
graven to the saint for not granting a 
prayer. We saw it as the sun smiled 
its last, and the rays streamed over the 
face of the golden wording on the east- 
ern wall. 

She had prayed long ago that love 
might be returned. She was then 

129 



130 



THE TABLET. 



young, and life was dear. The prayer 
was never answered. 

You may find her on one of the 
white trains leaving Paris even to-da}% 
ministering to the frightful load it 
carries to the Grotto ; or if you have 
patience and wait, you may see her 
kneeling in front of that odd inscrip- 
tion on the brass tablet in the chapel. 




INCONSISTENCY. 

He had grown old, not gray and 
feeble, but old with forty years of ex- 
perience. The winds of the world had 
buffeted him from port to port and 
along strange desert coasts. He could 
not tell why it was so ; but the all-wise 
claimed that he had been born without 
the power of loving. Some who met 
him cared for him for himself, others 
for his prosperity. 

He had used the whip of selfishness, 
suspicion, loneliness and terrible hate, 
and it had brought him riches. Deep 
in his heart he believed himself incap- 
able of loving. Then he found he was 
deceived, and even resenting this new 
feeling he wooed. Now she could 

131 



132 INCONSISTENCY. 

not fully analyze, for she was young. 
"Wait," she said; "I think I love you, 
but to me you are strange." 

He understands why he curses and 
sneers now, for he has lost even the 
feeling of love — that something which 
came so earnestly and swiftly, and so 
quickly sped. But she does not under- 
stand him for she is happy with an- 
other. 

The people of the world congratu- 
late her and pity perhaps, but far oft- 
ener damn the one who marred her 
life, even for a few months. 

The world is strange. After all, 
life is the world. 



THE QUESTION. 

The bright smile, which was born in 
his soul and stamped itself on his face, 
cheering and influencing his fellow-men, 
suddenly weakened and disappeared, 
for his mind, while reviewing and en- 
joying the alluring present, saw for the 
first time a dark shadow hover over 
the face of his world. The flight of 
this shadow left a trace of cold air, 
which vibrated tremulously the word 
" hereafter." The shadow chilled the 
smile which his own people loved so 
well, and of which he now knew the 
value. It was strange, however, he 
had lived so long and had never 
thought what hereafter really meant. 
When the shadow disappeared he threw 

133 



134 THE QUESTION. 

himself into the whirl of pleasure which 
his beloved world temptingly held 
out to him, and the smile returned 
and few remarked its short absence. 
He alone could feel the blight that 
chill had left on his soul. He said to 
himself, "I am young, and my coun- 
terfeit of happiness is clever." There 
were other beings who had seen this 
same shadow, and had felt it steal 
something from them; but yet they 
resorted not to the distraction offered 
by the world, but rather inflicted 
those around them with sad faces 
and gloomy utterances, and classed 
themselves with the reformed and 
saved. 

But he was different. So he lived 
on, and many loved him and called 
him honest; others shunned him 
as he passed — this unbeliever, who 
could go through life smiling. "Only 



THE QUESTION. 135 

wait," they cried, " until he has seen 
and known that shadow." 

Suddenly the shadow appeared to 
him again. Its cold breath chilled him 
through and through, and he had a 
sense of ease and comfort ; for it kissed 
his eyes and soul, and those who had 
drawn their skirts aside as he passed, 
now filed by him and marvelled at the 
beauty of the smile on his face, as he 
lay there so cold, and with one accord 
they whispered, " But what of his here- 
after?" 



